


Temporary Help

by Parhelion



Category: Nero Wolfe - Stout
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-30
Updated: 2007-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Parhelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is another way they could have met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temporary Help

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Fandom cliche ahead, if an oddly historically plausible one for this canon.

"I've made a mistake," the heavy-set man says evenly, and turns away towards the mouth of the alley and the light that pools there. Some of the noise from the waterfront saloon is still loud through the near-by side door, but he doesn't raise his voice. "There are other possibilities to try before--"

"Wait," the young man replies, his hand darting out to grab the rich weave of the ample overcoat. But he grimaces even as he says the single word.

The heavy man snorts in response, his right hand tightening on the metal handle of his walking stick. "You're claiming that you want this?"

The young man lets go and steps away. They lock gazes, both pairs of eyes barely visible in the yellow light. Then the young man glances away for a moment towards the streetlamp, and towards the piers beyond, before he looks back. His tone wavers somewhere between defiant and sardonic when he says, "I want your money." His buckeye accent makes the blunt words harsh.

"You state the obvious." The heavy man's large head twitches slightly in what might be a shake before he sighs deeply. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a wallet and opens it. The wallet is made from a fine kidskin but it contains only a few dollar bills and none of the other papers that prosperous men in their late thirties usually carry. Removing a single bill, he hands it to the young man, pockets the wallet, and once again starts to turn away.

"I don't take charity. Especially from...I don't." The tenor voice is harsh. "This is enough dough for what you want."

"I doubt there is money enough anywhere for what I truly want."

Now it's the young man's turn to snort. "Never mind the sermon. A buck will get a fella's stem wound anywhere in this neighborhood."

"How you reassure me." The words are polite. "I'd imagine that the stem in question would belong to you, and would be wound in as detached a manner as possible by me." Those words are less polite. He runs a large hand across his broad face. Then, in obvious frustration, he mutters, "Not that you are to be blamed for the usual mode of such affairs. And I need sleep."

Burying his hands deep in his trouser pockets against the October chill, the young man sounds a little curious when he asks, "Insomnia?" He pauses, and then adds, "Business problems?"

"You also ask questions." He shoots the young man a look. "You are new to this."

"So? I thought that was supposed to make me a hot number."

The thick lips stretch very slightly. "Have you dallied with any virgins? As an actual trait, inexperience is overly valued."

In a gesture of visible impatience, the young man runs one hand through red-blond hair. Even on this cold night he wears no hat, no cap, to block his fingers. "I've already been around the long block and down through the alleys, if that's what you're asking. Do you care how often?"

"As a matter of fact, no." The heavy man's head tilts. "You're without other recourse?"

"I already owe a fella money. He's impatient, especially about interest. And I guess I'm not the only one who's new enough at this to ask questions." The glare he receives in exchange for his last comment makes him grin.

"Don't be obnoxious."

"Pot, kettle, black," the young man retorts. "Look, I have your dollar. Do you want to do...what you want, or not?"

He's considered for a long moment. In the faint light, the large man's lips seem to shift as he thinks. "Yes, I do. But not here. These surroundings are vile."

"The rats add to the atmosphere. The trails of spilled beer and slime along the cobblestones are nifty, too." As he speaks, the young man is hiding away the single bill inside a thin leather bag worn around his neck, beneath his undershirt. When he's done, he squares his shoulders and continues, "We can't go back to where I'm sleeping."

"And you need a bath." As he says this, the heavy man's nostrils flair very slightly.

"I didn't know I was about to meet Miss Emily Post, or I would've found some way to scrub up first."

"I know of an establishment that rents rooms."

"I'm not sure how that'll help your sense of smell."

"The rooms have private baths."

"Every room with its own bathtub? Ritzy." The young man tilts his head. He grins again. "Fifty cents more?"

"Not a nickel. I shall, however, buy you dinner afterwards."

"Okay. It's a deal." He doesn't offer a hand for a shake, though. The heavy man's head bobs slightly in what might be meant to be a nod of approval. Without another word he turns for a third time towards the mouth of the alley, leaving the young man to follow or not as he chooses. The young man's shoulders hunch, but he doesn't hesitate.

An hour and a half later, he is pulling frayed suspenders up over the shoulders of his worn white shirt. His hair is now damp, plastered back across his head without the help of pomade.

The heavy man is rolling his shirt sleeves down over surprisingly strong forearms after having dried his hands and arms with a towel thin with use. He looks up to ask, tone once again measured, "Do you still want dinner?"

"You bet." The young man stretches with easy grace, looks faintly surprised at his own relaxation, and adds hastily, "I'm not dumb enough to nix free grub."

"No, you're not unintelligent, merely annoying."

His companion seems to feel his look is response enough.

"My words are not meant as criticism. Not in these circumstances, at least. Annoyance is the surest inoculation against creeping sentimentality." He studies the young man. "Precisely how much money do you owe your insistent usurer?"

"Not enough to pay for what you're thinking."

"Shut up. I doubt you even know what I could be thinking." For a wonder, the young man does fall silent even if his eyes still speak for him. His own eyes narrowed, the heavy man continues. "How good are your table manners?"

"You're about to find out."

Once again, the heavy man's head twitches in his oddly truncated nod. "You believe that they'll suffice." He ignores the young man's snort and continues, "I'm not speaking of a different kind of intimate encounter but of a different duration of employment, in different surroundings." Politely, he ignores the blaze of what might be hope that momentarily burns off his companion's sardonic expression. "If you can be trusted not to attempt any puerile and petty criminality involving my reputation or my property, I would be interested in engaging your exclusive company for perhaps a fortnight. There is a backlog of minor clerical chores that you could help with during that time, an explanation you can proffer to others. While you stayed with me, your pay would be adequate, your room and board luxurious. You could retire your debt and return to the...usual tenor of your life." He bears up to the examination that follows with equanimity.

"Say, you really are having problems sleeping."

"Yes."

"But I don't see you yawning after your recent exercise."

Brown eyes glint behind lowered lids. "If we need to discuss this topic for long, I'd imagine that you will."

For some reason, the young man visibly relaxes at these words. After a few seconds he goes over to the washstand, picks up the cufflinks resting there, and gestures. The heavy man stretches out his arms, and the young man inserts the gold links, one at a time. After he helps the heavy man don first his suit coat and then his overcoat, the younger man says, "This late dinner had better be something special."

"It will suffice. Come along, Mr...?"

"Archie. Not Archibald, Archie."

"My own name is Wolfe." He picks up his cane from where it leans by the door. "Come along, Archie. Dinner may suffice, but breakfast will be more than sufficient."

"Gosh, I can hardly wait," Archie says. His steps are firm, though, and his shoulders easy as he pulls on his own suit coat before following Mr. Wolfe, his new employer, out of the dingy hotel room.


End file.
